Before the age of metal minds, before the age of harnessed lightning, before the age of exploding fire, when the old gods had withdrawn from the earth, there lived in the Village of Ice an old woman whose heart never froze. Every day, she stood at the doorway of the Village shrine to the old gods, built long before the earth froze, and forgotten by all but she, sweeping the floor as if enough cleaning would make the cracks in the aged stone disappear. The children of the Village called her Grandmother because of all the people in the Village, she always the kindest, even if nobody could remember her real name. However, Grandmother was always very sad, because she had no children of her own, and her heart was heavy with the passage of time, and because villagers would pass the doorway of her shrine walking quickly, but would not enter.

One night, when the sky and streets were cold, crisp and empty, and Grandmother was tending to the hearth in the middle of the shrine, she heard a cry not too far away. She looked around, wondering what it was, when she realized that the voice was coming from the smoke. It curled and coiled, too heavy for the air and too light for the earth, suspended somewhere in between in the form of a child.

Grandmother looked for a place where the smoke child could stay the night. She pulled out a blanket which she had folded neatly on a rack, a blanket as bright as the stars and as soft as the moon. A young pilgrim woman with flashing eyes had set it at the altar the night before, and Grandmother had wondered about it. It was without a doubt a magical blanket, for Grandmother had never seen the likes of it before.

Singing half to herself and half to the child, she began to chant a song to put him to sleep that she had learned when she was just a young girl. The blanket billowed like a cloud, rippling gently in some nonexistent breeze, and as she tucked the child in, for the first time in her life, she was happy.

*

The night before had been one of bitter cold, but it had been bitter cold in the Village of Ice since the old gods had withdrawn from the world, and one night more did not seem to make any difference in the scheme of things. Snow continued to fall, trees continued to wilt and shiver, the stones of the temple continued to crack, and even to Grandmother, who had not always been old, there seemed no difference between that night and all the others that had passed before it. Nights were marked primarily only by the passage of time, and the passage of men outside the doorway who would not enter.

This night was marked by one woman who did bother. She shook snow from her shoulders and hair as she entered, and from a feathered cape bright like tongues of fire. Despite the cold, no misery or weariness sat upon the brow that crowned a pair of flashing eyes. Despite the aged stones, the walls that let in wind, the wind-worn idols, the lonely hearth, no crease of scorn sat about a mouth that warmed a room when it smiled.

“The night is lonely, young one,” Grandmother called from the fire. Her bones creaked as she walked over to greet her solitary guest, and the years were heavy upon her like the ancient beams above her head. Nonetheless, she was glad of human company, and led the pilgrim to her hearth, with its flickering flames and shadows, in the center of the room. They sat by the hearthstones glowing with warmth, and the pilgrim was silent for a long time.

“I have been to other parts of the village,” she said at last. “The houses are cold there as well, and I have been turned away. It is foreign to me, as I remember when the women laughed with their children and the men had their tales of the sea to tell.”

“You must be thinking of some other place, young one,” said Grandmother. She averted her eyes from the door leading into that outside world which once had full and happy homes, and piled kindling onto the fire. The kindling was damp, and the fire coughed in fits and sputtered. “There has been no one save I since the old gods withdrew from the world.”

“Is that true? Is there no faith remaining in the hearts of men?” For a moment, the young pilgrim looked fell and terrible, a quiet intensity bright and angry on her face, and she stared into the fire for a long time.

“It has,” Grandmother said, “been so long since the beginning of the long winter that people have forgotten what it was like when there still were gods.”

“Aren’t there still?” asked the pilgrim tremulously.

“I believe so,” Grandmother said firmly, “gods to whom I still pray to spare us from the curse of remaining the Village of Ice.”

A smile crinkled the young woman’s mouth, and for a time she looked both old and young at once. “You are good,” she said, “and have given me warmth as well as faith. I have many miles to go on my journey, but will remember you and your hospitality.” She stood again, and grandmother stood beside her, and they both yawned. Grandmother went to a hammock slung between the pillars along the right wall, and the pilgrim went to a hammock slung between the pillars along the left.

“I will give you a gift,” she said upon retiring, “so that you will always be warm, and your fire will never go out.” Grandmother felt a need to reply, but her eyelids felt like lead. She said nothing, her heart filling with the bliss of oblivion, and dropped off into the happy land of deep slumber.

When Grandmother awoke the next morning, the fire was burning low and the pilgrim was gone.

*

Grandmother raised the smoke boy as if he were her own, and every day she fed him and sung to him. With each day that the boy took in the nourishment, songs, dreams and loves that belong to humans alone, he became more and more solid, so that after a length of time he became indistinguishable from the other boys of the village except for the changing colors of his eyes.

*

Morning came, years later, and the white-gold eye of the sun rose above the gray endless sea and the snowy folding hills. A black ship flew through the silvering water, her wet wood sleek, shining and windswept like the wings of a raven. Eastward, eastward went the ship, away from the dawn stars, the sun on her prow. Away from the Village of Ice, away from the cold went the nameless boy of smoke. Nameless felt that he knew the seas and they were his own; of all the village boys, he sailed the farthest from the village each clammy morning. While the village boys would stand away from him in groups and try to ignore his presence, they whispered among themselves when he was gone that Nameless, the strange boy with no mother and no father, sailed uncharted parts of the ocean that only he knew.

On this morning, like many others before, Nameless felt the full shafts of the sun on his face, and was satisfied with his position. So far from the Village, the water was warmer, and the fish bigger, brighter, and so much more fantastic than the ones caught close to the shore. If only there were warmer lands beyond the Island of Ice, other lands to be found in this warm and fertile sea he plowed, Nameless would have been happy. But even he, with his unparalleled knowledge of the sea, knew of no better place the villagers could go. Nameless had to be content with what the sea gave him. Fish with scales like rainbows, fish with horns on their heads, fish with backs the breadth of a hull, fish that glowed and fish that flew, these were the fish that he saw and (sometimes) caught. One by one, Nameless tossed his thick nets of heavy knotted rope over the side, to trawl the seas along the raven ship’s flank. As he trawled the sea and reaped his bounty, the sun continued its journey across the sky, and when it was nearly sunken in the west, Nameless pulled in his last net.

Much to his surprise, there was something inside that was new and unfamiliar.

Something wriggled and cried in that net and spilled into the ship where it sat aghast amid the lively flopping rainbow fish and horned fish and glowing fish and flying fish. Nameless saw, much to his dismay, that it was a girl with flashing eyes, flowing hair like water, and most notably, a long, curving fish’s tail in place of her legs.

“What are you?” Nameless said.

“Who are you?” Nameless said.

“I’m sorry,” Nameless said, but since he was trying to say three things at once, he failed at all of them, remaining stunned and speechless.

“I know you!” the girl babbled, great streams of sea water tears spilling unabashedly down her cheeks. “Save me, I know you are merciful!"

"Know?" asked Nameless. "I've never met you."

 "The sentient creatures of the sea have all heard of you," said the girl as her eyes glowed with the strength of her conviction. "You are of the Village of Ice, which was not always so. Long ago there was in it warmth and plenty, but also people whose pride grew so that they took the old gods for granted. The shrines were neglected and altars abandoned. Hope, in her boundless mercy, left her son to be raised by those in the village still faithful, so that he may find her and restore her one day to her rightful place. You are that son and I can help you. I know where your mother is."

“You must tell that to everyone you meet," said Nameless, who was by nature a cynic.

“I have proof, water from the lands where water is neither salt nor ice! That is where she lives!” The girl trembled and thrust an arm through the gaps in the net, something round and brown and furry clutched in her webbed fingers. Nameless had never seen anything like it; it was a coconut with a cork plugging a small hole drilled through the top. Nameless pulled out the cork and squinted into the makeshift jug, which had been hollowed out and was filled with clear and shining water. Nameless tilted the jug to his lips, letting some cold silvery drops flow down his throat, and the girl was right. The water was neither salt nor ice.

“There, you see I am honest,” said the girl triumphantly, and Nameless slashed away at the net with his obsidian knife, finally opening up a mermaid-shaped hole. She took a long drink from the jug herself,  her unexpected stay on board a ship having left her feeling dry. “Give my water to the Sun,” she said while wetting her lips, “and he shall find your real mother for you. He knows every land under his dominion upon the face of the earth, and surely will know from where that water springs.”

Nameless took the coconut jug from the girl, plugging the cork back carefully as not to spill any of the remaining water. He set it aside, and helped the girl slip into the waves.

*

When Nameless returned to the Village of Ice, his ship gliding past silent icebergs, night had fallen full and deep like the ink of a squid. The villagers were less than happy with him, crying, “But what about the last net? It’s all empty!”

“I caught something big but the net broke,” Nameless replied, not too happy with the villagers themselves. He did not know why he lied, which was something he had not done before, except that he felt that those selfish people did not to deserve to know about his mermaid. Nor, in addition, did they need to know about his mother.

At Grandmother’s shrine, he went to bed without eating dinner, dreaming about mermaids and the dawn stars.

*

For nine days and nine nights, Nameless sailed on his raven ship untiringly east towards the Island of the Sun. Finally, after nine days’ labor, he stood in front of the tall and splendid house of the Sun, which was consumed by red hot flames, more heat than he had ever known. Behind him, moored to a sunbeam, the raven ship burned and slid quite improbably beneath the steaming water. Ahead of him, from deep within the flames, snarls echoed and rolled, and bounding towards him at tremendous speed, the Sun’s nine hounds snapped at him angrily, blazing fire in canine form. Nameless strode in amongst them, fearless, and from the coconut jug sprinkled a mist of the water droplets on them, as he did with disobedient wolfhounds at home. Sizzling, the dogs howled and cowered in submission, circling about his heels. From behind him, he heard a crackle of flame.

“What are you doing here?” asked Sun, golden flames leaping from his body, almost blinding the boy.

”I am looking for my mother,” said Nameless as he gave the jug of water to Sun. “I know only that she lives in a land where the water is neither salt nor ice.”

“I know of no such place under my dominion,” replied the Sun, boiling the water in the jug with a single glance before returning it. “Perhaps you could ask at the House of the Moon. Moon has dominion over all the waters of the Earth, and his knowledge is more comprehensive than my own. He knows all the waters that run along the sand of river beds and the waters that run through the bowels of caves, while I know only those upon the surface that my face can smile upon. He will surely know where to find your mother.”

Nameless looked at Sun, and sensing the truth in his words, turned away. As he did so, Sun pressed a shiny conch into Nameless’ palm. It was hot to the point of burning, but Nameless did not show the pain on his face. Sun must have known anyway, and cast Nameless a look of pity. Nameless could not tell if Sun pitied him because of his palm, or if Sun pitied him because of his inability to help. “If you ever need assistance, blow on that,” said the Sun in softer tones, and the conch shone coral and white under his gaze. “The conch protects its master.”

Nameless gave his many thanks, and stepped into the water. Foam appeared, bubbling the surface. Something pink glowed under the shallows, rising until it broke the surface, water shedding from its ridges to reveal the soft form of a giant shell. Slowly, the lid of the shell swung open on its hinges, and whiteness unfurled from within. A pale and graceful ship, curved like a swan, sat upon the shell risen from the sea, feathered wings swaying. Nameless stepped into it, and departed for the House of the Moon.

*

Nameless traveled for nine days and nine nights without rest before reaching the Moon’s Island, farther east still. He disembarked from the swan ship onto a sparkling white sand beach, and the land glowed with a gentle and unearthly light. The ground was dimpled with small craters, and Nameless felt his step becoming lighter and lighter as he walked and soon he fell into a steady bouncing gait that sped him easily over the uneven earth. This continued for a long time, so that Nameless began to think the Moon’s sanctuary a tremendously monotonous, hypnotic place, when he nearly banged into what appeared to be a high, insurmountable black wall. Standing several feet away from it, he realized that it was not a wall at all, but that the ground and sky past a certain invisible dividing line, instead of being bathed in light, were plunged in complete darkness. Nameless could only distinguish the silhouette of Moon’s house against the sky because it was blacker than the night itself. Then he saw a single crescent of clear light, the arch of the Moon’s bow, emanating from the rooftop, and knew that to continue would mean death.

Nameless wound the conch, crushing the air in his lungs, forcing it into a single note that blasted and shook the illusory black wall to its metaphorical foundation stones.

“There,” shouted Nameless into the shadow in the general direction of the invisible archer. “I’m not trespassing! You know I’m here and not sneaking around and I’m going to talk to you now!”

Nameless took a step into the darkness. It was probably a mistake. Nine silver arrows streaked towards him like meteors from the Moon’s house, when the conch sounded a second time on its own accord, and Sun’s nine fiery dogs came bounding through the air, snatching the silver arrows in their teeth and driving away the inky darkness of night. The hounds bayed and rubbed themselves affectionately against their call, and the conch disintegrated into a streak of star dust, which is still visible in the sky on clear nights.

“What do you want?” asked Moon, who had leapt from the roof and come forward to retrieve his arrows, his bow slung over a shoulder. His light-less, featureless face and body seemed ill at ease with the Sun’s hounds.

“I want to find my mother,” Nameless said, handing the coconut jug over to Moon. Sun’s dogs ran in circles around his feet as planets do. “I know only that she comes from the land from which this water springs, a water that is neither salt nor ice. You have dominion over all waters, even those which run deep and are concealed from the eyes of Sun.”

“This is water like none over which I have dominion,” declared the Moon. “Please go away. I cannot help you, and do not wish to shoot at you again, and perhaps not miss this time.”

“Then where shall I go?” asked Nameless.

“The Realm of the Clouds,” said the Moon. “The Nameless Guardian there knows all the water in the air, the wetness in the rain and snow that is all invisible to both the Sun and I. Perhaps it will help you, for the water of the air is neither salt nor ice, and that may be what you are looking for.”

“Hey, aren’t you going to give me something for my journey?” asked Nameless.

“NO, you ungrateful trespasser!” shrieked the Moon. “I should have shot you dead! Now get out of my sight before I actually do, and take your dogs with you!”

Nameless left the House of the Moon empty handed and in a hurry, and the dogs went bounding back to their master at the House of the Sun. He went to the edge of the waters, where to his dismay, he discovered his swan ship riddled with arrows. She sang most heartbreakingly and beautifully, her neck and wings outspread, before she died and drifted to the bottom of the sea, sending up a delicate stream of bubbles.

“Well, then,” said Nameless, wading chest deep into the shallows. No third ship rose out from the water, but it was warm, and Nameless set the hollow coconut out in front of him. It did not sink. He poked it, and it bobbed up it down. Then he thrust it into the water with all his might. When he released it, it shot back to the surface again. Good.

He clutched the coconut to his chest, kicked off from the shore, and began to swim.

*

Nameless swam for another nine days and nine nights without rest, still further east. The water by his side became increasingly lighter and clearer, until finally it was a completely transparent shade of true blue, and Nameless discovered that the current of the sea against his body had transformed into a rushing breeze, and the white foam of the waves into long, scudding clouds. The coconut sprouted a pair of wide wings shaped like palm fronds, so Nameless hauled himself out of the water, sat on the coconut, and flew. Unobstructed, he made his way to the Realm of the Clouds, sure that his mother was to be found there.

“What do you want?” asked the Nameless Guardian. It was nameless, faceless, shapeless, and formless, a great gaseous mass that formed and unformed, but it had a mighty voice.

“I am seeking my mother,” answered Nameless, eyeing the storm system with some trepidation.

“Oh, yes, Hope,” replied the Guardian. “It’s too bad she had to abandon your village so many years ago. Your people have not really survived all that well without her. I suppose you’ve come to bring her back with you?”

“You know her?" Nameless asked, leaning forward in anticipation. "Where is she?”

“Oh, I know,” said the Guardian, “but I cannot tell you, because I cannot allow you to find her and return Hope to the village. Not for any personal reasons, you understand." The Guardian spiraled up and away, a whistling column of wind and water and dust, until all that was left of it was a shrieking funnel of destruction. "Nothing is personal to me."

“See,” said the Guardian, nameless no longer, “I am Chaos. You are rather silly, I think. You have faith that people will help you, you have faith that your mother is somewhere in the world, and faith that only a certain outcome of your story is possible. But I am Chaos, and everything in this world is under my dominion, from the sea to the Sun to the Moon to the Clouds. There is no order, no meaning, no reason why. There is no reason why your village was a paradise one day and a frozen wasteland the other. There is no reason why Grandmother has always been withered and ugly and lonely while other women have been vibrant and beautiful and beloved. There is no reason why some children have mothers and fathers and you have none. There is no reason why you are alive one minute and dead the other. Neither the goodness of your heart nor your perseverance nor the strength of your conviction will assure you your mother in the end. It all means nothing. You mean nothing. You are nothing. Bow before me!”

Nameless could not go any further, and even if he did, he would not know what he could expect to find. As he wept, each tear fell from the Realm of the Clouds, as bright as the stars and as soft as the moon. He had nothing, and he was alone, and everything Chaos had said seemed quite true. However, once he’d had his cry, Nameless felt a lot better, for there were no tears or sadness left. He wiped his eyes.

“You’re lying,” he told Chaos, hurling the winged coconut into the vortex, and letting himself fall. The wind whirled around him and there was no up or down, nothing but cloud above him and cloud below him, cloud around him in thick wet rags that tore at his arms and legs and hair and the words out of his mouth. “I’ll find her.”

“Why do you think that?” asked Chaos, pulling at Nameless with the force of his wind. Chaos kept pace with the boy in freefall and enveloped him, so that the cloud spoke from all sides, a voice that seemed to come forth without a mouth, except for the entirety of the cloud itself, forming and unforming. As Chaos pulled, the boy was becoming smoke again, the edges of his body distorted and unspooling, unraveling into the vortex that surrounded him, and over the roar of the wind his voice was soft and nearly inaudible.

“Just because." Chaos pressed forward on all sides to listen, and Nameless spoke again. "It’s bound to happen.”

“I’ve told you,” said Chaos, “that there is no such thing as destiny.” Above him a hole opened in the clouds, clear and blue, and white sunlight came through it.

But Nameless was no longer paying attention, for he saw the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, shimmering in the sky through his falling tears, shimmering in the water that was neither salt nor ice.

“Hi, Mom,” he said. “I’m here.”

*

No one in the Village of Ice ever saw Nameless again. However, one reason for this was that nine days and nine nights after Nameless reached the Realm of Clouds, the Village of Ice began ceasing to exist. Grandmother discovered that her joints did not hurt quite so much, and it did not feel quite so cold outside. She ran outside and sang at the top of her lungs, and uncharacteristically, the villagers did not think she was crazy because they felt it too. That was many years ago, and the Village of Mild Frost is still very cold. Nothing has melted very much, and the sun shines only a little more often, a little longer, and a little more intensely than it used to.

The villagers do not feel the cold though, because they flow into the shrines (there’s more than one now), and there they’re warmed by the love and joy of so many people in one spot. Nameless had indeed found his mother, and though the Village of Mild Frost is still not a perfect place, he brought Hope to the village and the people are better for it.

*

Not a true story, you say.

However, if you should feel the pain of sorrow pressing on your heart and are wondering where Hope is, you have only to glance at the sky after a long shower of rain or tears to see her there yourself.